


Where Worlds Collide

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: Casino Royale (2006), James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:37:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What makes you think this is my first time?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Worlds Collide

**Author's Note:**

> A Bond/Q-centric explanation for what happened to Villiers after "Casino Royale."

Q hated funerals.

He'd been to a lot in his time with MI6, and they were always the same. Same people, same food, same half-hearted murmurings of sympathy and, “He was such an asset to the team.” The only difference at M's funeral was that the speeches were given by the Prime Minister and the Prince of Wales rather than a division head or M herself. 

After the eulogy, Q stood in a corner by the buffet table, eating a soggy salmon and watercress sandwich and wondering how soon he could leave. He had a program running back at the office. It wasn't strictly necessary for him to be there the moment it finished, but he wanted to see the results come up. That was part of the fun. He sneaked his free hand into the pocket of his overcoat and glanced down at his phone. _Ten minutes more_ , he thought. That would be long enough to show respect for M and still get him back in time. 

“This wine is appalling.”

Q looked up. A mildly handsome man stood in front of him, dark-haired and deeply tanned. He was wearing a black suit, like everyone else, and he made a face of distaste at the wineglass in his hand. 

“It's from Yorkshire,” Q said. He'd overheard the waitress talking about it and had immediately looked it up on his phone, for no other reason than that he could.

“Yorkshire?”

“Just outside of York. They produced their first vintage in 2009. They've won quite a few awards, but, of course, the climate makes the growing season significantly shorter than in other parts of Europe, and even other parts of England. In fact, according to their website...” The man's expression changed, his forehead creasing and his eyes glazing over. 

Despite what many people, including his mother, seemed to think, Q was not at any point on the autism spectrum. He understood people—he wouldn't have been in this job if he didn't—and he knew when he was talking too much about something no one wanted to discuss. He just couldn't seem to stop himself. 

“It's Villiers,” the man said, when Q paused for breath. He held out a hand. Q shook it, relieved that he'd changed the course of the conversation. “Out of Mumbai.” 

“Q,” Q said. It still felt awkward to introduce himself as that, but secrecy was paramount, even here. 

There was a moment's hesitation, long enough for Q to wonder if he'd said something wrong. Then Villiers smiled, a big grin splitting his face as if Q had just told the most hilarious joke. “Really.” He laughed, which did nothing to clarify the situation. “Give my love to 007.” He set his half-full wineglass on the buffet table, next to the ham rolls, and walked away. 

It was a strange encounter. Q didn't like strange encounters. Strangeness meant a lack of understanding, and a lack of understanding meant the potential for danger. People, including his mother, made fun of his fear of flying, but if they sat down and actually learned about the principles behind it rather than blindly trusting their lives to a bucket of bolts and a flight attendant in a navy blue neckerchief, they wouldn't do it, either. Or maybe they would. Q had never underestimated the stupidity of the general populace.

Later on, after he'd made sure his program had finished with the results he wanted, Q looked up Villiers. As he'd said, he worked in Mumbai. More than working there, he was the boss, the head of the field bureau covering south-east Asia. Before that, he'd been M's assistant, her right hand man for years, which explained why he'd come to her funeral. It didn't explain his remark about James Bond.

Bond's absence at the funeral had been noticeable, but not surprising, in Q's opinion. Of all the 00-agents, Bond seemed to care the least about protocol, about keeping up appearances. But he had been close to M, everyone knew that. Closer than Villiers had been? Was professional jealousy at the root of Villiers' comment? 

Now that he'd started the investigation, Q had to finish it. He never left anything half done. He glanced up, making sure everyone else was busy at work, and opened a new tab. 

It felt like something he should be doing in secret, but to suddenly go into a darkened corner and start acting mysteriously would draw more attention than staying at his desk. He sat in his usual chair, cup of tea in hand. Casually, as if he were reviewing code or writing up a ballistics report, Q spread Villiers' entire life out in front of him. 

Like all of them, Villiers had multiple phones and multiple email accounts. None of them were the least bit interesting. Q skimmed rapidly over the most recent messages: arrangements with friends to meet up while Villers was in the UK and mission-related emails to his underlings in Mumbai. Villiers had recently started seeing a local man, an Oxford-educated doctor, who understood why he couldn't come to England this time but who missed Villiers nevertheless. Q delved further, then further still. Time passed. The rest of his team went home, but they were used to Q staying after hours. Security was used to it, as well. They barely gave him a glance as they passed the department. 

By eight o'clock, Q had gone back years, to the time just before Villiers was reassigned. That was when he found it. The day before the official notice went out congratulating Villiers on his promotion and imminent move to the other side of the world, Villiers had sent an email to James Bond

The message was brief. _Being transferred to India. Apparently “it's for the best.” Let me guess what she's doing to you? Nothing?_ There was no sign off, but bitterness was evident in every word.

Q looked for a reply from Bond. There wasn't one. He checked the deleted messages folder. Nothing there, either. Bond hadn't replied to the message, and there was no further communication between them.

Q leaned back, his chair squeaking beneath him. What had happened? A fight? It seemed unlikely that would result in Villiers being sent to Mumbai. An affair? Given what Q knew about Bond, that wasn't implausible. And, if he was honest, he couldn't blame Villiers for it. 

Bond wasn't the youngest of the 00-agents, he wasn't even the best looking, but he had an allure, an indefinable something that had sent all of Q's neuroses into overdrive the minute they met. Q couldn't even remember what he'd said. Some nonsense about a Turner painting, which Bond had taken for an awkward flirtation. He wasn't entirely wrong.

Bond couldn't fault Villiers for being attracted to Bond. He couldn't even fault him for acting on it, but he could fault him for being found out. Q didn't know the man, but he couldn't imagine M taking on an idiot as an assistant. Bond, too, seemed like he should have known better. It was a little disillusioning to know he hadn't.

Q closed everything he had running and erased his tracks. He went over to the kitchen and placed his mug in the sink. He knew where Villiers would be. He was scheduled to have drinks at a hotel bar with an old school friend he hadn't seen in years. Q could go there, contrive to bump into him, and talk about it with Villiers himself, but he didn't. Instead, he pulled on his coat and went home. 

***

James Bond was not an altruistic man. He did what he did because defending Queen and country was the right thing to do, but he couldn't deny he got something out of it, too. Nothing could compare to the rush of a successful mission, to the absolute exaltation of knowing the country was safe, for now, and that he'd personally made sure of it. It was an adrenaline high nothing could match, a buzz that left him feeling, if only temporarily, that he was untouchable. 

He sailed into Q-division one morning on just such a high, having foiled yet another plot to destroy the world. He hadn't done it alone, of course. As usual, the high-tech gadgetry provided by Q had played a significant role in keeping Bond alive, if not entirely in one piece, and Bond was there to thank Q in person. His entire person, if Q played his cards right.

Once Bond got over the fact he had suit jackets older than Q, he couldn't deny the man was attractive. Intelligence had always been a turn-on for Bond. Intelligence combined with a biting wit and an air of innocence, however misleading, was deadly. When he saw Q sitting alone at his desk, a cup of tea in his hand and his eyes glued to his computer screen, Bond felt a ribbon of lust uncurl in his gut, warm and delicious.

He licked his lips. “Good morning.”

Q barely glanced up from his screen. “What can I do for you?” 

The set-up was too perfect. That rarely happened. Bond couldn't count the number of times he'd had the perfect _bon mot_ in mind, but never had the chance to use it. He lowered his voice seductively. “Anything you like.”

Now, Q's eyes snapped up. His team were around, but no one was within earshot. No one even glanced in their direction. “Nothing springs to mind.” 

“Really?” Bond cocked an eyebrow. He hadn't expected this, but hard-to-get was always fun. He could work with it. “That's surprising. I'd have thought an Internet aficionado like you would have no shortage of...fascinating ideas.” 

Q said nothing. Bond had been around long enough to know when someone was interested, and Q had been interested since they first met. But part of an agent's job was to know when to stay quiet. He did so, keeping his eyes trained on Q. Q shifted in his seat and blushed and, sure enough, a moment later he spoke, his voice so low Bond had to strain to hear him.

“What makes you think I want to have sex with you?”

“What makes you think you don't?”

Q's hand tightened around the handle of his cup, until Bond thought it would break off. “Villiers.” 

Another part of an agent's job was never to show surprise. Bond kept his expression neutral and his voice level. “What about him?”

“You got him fired.”

“He was promoted.” 

Q's expression grew even darker, storm clouds moving over his eyes. Bond wasn't used to this. Normally, when he propositioned someone, the only question was how quickly they could get to a semi-comfortable location. “Yes.” Q's voice was flat, devoid of any emotion. “I suppose he was. But since I don't think the Indian climate would do much for my skin, I'd just as soon stay in England, if it's all the same to you.”

It wasn't. “Q...”

“If you have any comments on the equipment, 007, please put them in an email.” Q raised his voice. His tone was dismissive and final. 

“All right.” Bond tried to scoff, but it came out more like a half-strangled laugh. He hesitated a moment, just in case this was part of a game, but Q didn't look up. “I'll see you later, then.”

“Hopefully not,” Q snapped in return. 

Bond beat a quiet, embarrassed retreat, his post-mission buzz fading as rapidly as it had come on.

***

“009, please report.” Q worked hard to keep his voice light and breezy, as if he were ordering a cup of tea at Starbucks rather than trying to establish a link with a secret agent deep in South Sudan. 

The room was silent. Around him, a dozen people held their collective breath and stared at the screens in front of them. Q's heart pounded in his ears. He could feel a bead of sweat run down the back of his neck and into his collar. “009,” he repeated. “Please report.” 

Another long pause, broken all at once by a sudden burst of noise, a volley of gunshots so loud they made Q blink. It was followed by the most beautiful sound in the world at that moment: the flat Midlands accent of agent 009. “Bloody hell, this is a good gun.” The room erupted in laughter, an explosion of repressed stress and pent-up energy. 

“I'll pass the message on to the team,” Q said, and Tanner took over, directing the agent to the location where a helicopter waited to bring him home.

Q needed a drink. More than that, he needed to be alone for a moment. He went into the kitchen and collapsed in pure relief. He leaned against the wall and pushed his glasses up onto his forehead, rubbing twenty-two sleepless hours and a thousand tons of pressure out of his eyes.

“Nice work. Although I wouldn't have been too heartbroken if he'd died out there. I owe him fifty quid.” 

Q opened his eyes. Bond was in front of him, a blurry shape blending into the cupboards. Q let his glasses fall back into place. He was too tired to be annoyed, and too relieved to be snappish. “I'll keep that in mind next time.” Bond looked good. His face wasn't currently marred by any jagged cuts or particularly deep bruises, and his muscles bulged indecently beneath a tight T-shirt. Q knew that he was weary enough to give in if Bond propositioned him like he had several weeks ago, in the office at half-past nine in the bloody morning. He wasn't about to give him that chance.

Q went over to the counter and picked up the kettle. It felt light, so he turned on the tap and filled it, setting it back onto its base and flicking the switch. 

“I went to India,” Bond said, conversationally, as Q waited for the kettle to boil. Q ignored him. “Mumbai. Weather was beautiful. I would have liked to stay longer, but...” Bond shrugged, as if they were two colleagues having a normal, collegial chat. “I got the job done, anyway.”

Q didn't want to ask. He struggled to keep his mouth shut, but it betrayed him. “What job?”

“Villiers. I don't think I'll be best man at his wedding, but he no longer harbours a heartfelt desire to murder me in my sleep. I might even get a Christmas card this year.” 

Q didn't look at him. He refused to. Instead, he focused on the handwritten sign in front of him, which implored people to clean up their own messes. 

“M didn't like fraternization,” Bond went on. “Which is a little rich, since she married a codebreaker when she was a field operative, but no one ever accused her of consistency.” Q heard him move. An instant later, Bond was behind him, close enough that Q could feel his body heat. It wasn't fair. 

“How does Mallory feel about it?” Q couldn't imagine he was heartily in favour of the idea.

“I don't know,” Bond admitted. “I haven't asked.” 

“I don't want to get into trouble.” It sounded weak, but it was the truth. Q had spent his life staying out of trouble. He kept his head down, he worked very hard, and now he was where he wanted to be. He wasn't about to throw it all away for a fling, no matter how desirable said fling might seem. And here, standing a breath away from Bond, so close he could smell cologne and coffee and something else that had to be Bond himself, it seemed very desirable indeed. 

“I'll protect you.” Bond's voice was low and intimate, as if he were inside Q's head rather than merely whispering in his ear.

Q swallowed. “Like you protected Villiers?”

“No. You're much more important.” The voice got lower still. “I didn't go to India for Villiers.” 

Q turned around. Bond was even closer than he'd thought. He planted both hands on the counter, trapping Q within a prison of arms. Q could feel what was left of his resolve weakening by the second. It was just the final nail in the coffin when Bond leaned forward and kissed him.

It was nothing like Q had imagined. He'd expected something rough and harsh, but Bond's mouth was soft and his hands gentle on first Q's shoulders, then on his waist. When he pulled away, both of Q's lenses were smudged and his heart was pounding like he'd just run a mile. The kettle whistled and, blindly, he reached over to switch it off.

It was a game, Q knew that. Bond was a serial seducer. He slept with people and left them. Villiers was only the tip of the iceberg, the visible part of something that was far, far bigger and went much, much deeper than Q could fathom. If Q wanted safety, normalcy, an actual relationship, the angel on his shoulder knew this was entirely the wrong path to take. But if he wanted excitement, the devil on the other side pointed out, he couldn't ask for better. 

The devil won out. Q might have been cautious by nature, but there was a reason he worked for MI6 and not, say, HSBC. 

Q squared his shoulders and looked Bond in the eye. “I'll meet you at your flat in an hour.” Things with 009 would be wrapped up by then, at least enough that Q could leave without feeling guilty. 

“I'll see you there.” Bond didn't ask how Q knew where he lived. Instead, he winked, and then he was gone.

Q poured the water from the kettle into the earthenware pot and dropped in a Tetley's bag from his personal box. The phone in his right trouser pocket buzzed and he pulled it out. It was a text message from an internal number. _Good luck_ , it said. _You're going to need it. Villiers._ Q put the phone back in his pocket and poured himself an extra large, extra strong cup of tea.


End file.
